


Watch Me Fall

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, M/M, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is inevitable, and it was always going to hit Grantaire somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Me Fall

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this has been betaed by the wonderful [Pyla](http://pyladeswild.tumblr.com/)!

You don’t feel much of anything.

You remember what it’s like to feel, or at least you think you do. You remember being able to pull both sides of your mouth up and bare your teeth in a smile. You don’t remember the feeling of complete freedom and not caring in the best way possible. It wasn’t apathy but something else that filled you in those moments. You remember being able to laugh without a bottle hanging from your hand, but not what it felt like to leave the house without at least a faint haze from the buzz of drunkenness. You remember, in theory, happiness. You don’t really remember what it felt like, except for it could somehow, possibly, maybe resemble what you feel when you’re around your friends.

Of course, _friends_ is probably the wrong word for it. They tolerate you, perhaps. Especially Enjolras, who would probably kick you out if you waxed poetic about anything ever again, including if you were stupid enough to make him think that your blatant flirting is anything other than a joke. But _Les Amis_. They’re concerned that one of the people they’re fighting for - _l’abaissé_ , you think with a smirk - will die from their neglect.

They don’t know. They don’t know. They don’t know-

What don’t they know?

You have a myriad of pills in your bathroom cabinet. You take one, two, three, four, five, six, _seven_ every morning. Your internet history on your phone keeps track of all the things you’ve looked up. Like how to overdose on prozac.

It’s kind of easy, when you think about it. All you need to do is drink a lot, pop your prozac and maybe some ibuprofen. Then you just lie on your bathroom floor and wait to kick the bucket. Pass your sell-by date. Become worm food, if your friends didn’t listen to every single time that you told them you’d prefer to be cremated. Ring down the curtain and join the choir invisible. Become an ex-Grantaire. Grantaire will leave the building. Pass the point of no return, if you will.

To be honest, you’d like that.

Wait, what was the line Jehan always sung? _No day but today_? It was from some musical ze was borderline obsessed with. Everyone in the group had seen it, even Bahorel and Enjolras. Most could sing it completely. Éponine, Cosette, Musichetta, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly and Grantaire himself had joined hir odd makeshift viewing cast.

_Well, Jeepee, you’ll need to find a new Roger_.

You roll out of bed and get dressed. You have just enough pride to want them to _not_ find you wearing nothing but a pair of old boxers that make your stomach protrude more than usual. Instead, you pull on your bottle-green t-shirt and a pair of the slouchiest jeans you own. It’s not like they’ll fall down without a belt, anyway.

You kind of need to piss, so you take a detour before you make your way to the kitchen. Éponine was probably over last night to walk you home and the only time you stopped going to meetings was while she was still quitting and couldn’t be around people drinking and she always hides your booze stock in the exact same place.

You grab a couple of bottles. They clink together loudly in the eerie silence of your small flat, but the noise is welcome and makes your mouth water.

You almost do it that morning. Afternoon. Likely evening, because you hear a knock on your door.

It would be so easy to avoid this. All you need to do is not answer, but _fuck_. You always forget to lock the door. _Idiot_. If you don’t answer, whoever it is will just come in and see you and they’ll figure it out. _They’ll figure you out_. And they’ll stop you from being able to do it because they enjoy pretending to care and they’ll watch you with that fake concern and you’ll want to fucking _die_ more than you did before, when it was an _actual fucking possibility_ , because you always want what you can’t have; _humans_ always want what they can’t have; and what you want is death and the eternal blackness that comes after.

"Grantaire? I wanted to see if you would walk with me to the meeting tonight?"

Shit. _Jehan_.

You shove a pair of shoes on and call back, “Just a minute!”

Eventually, you swing the door open. Jehan is still there, smiling like you’re some kind of perfect flower or a scented candle. Ze is wearing a knee-length dress with a flower pattern and strawberry-print ankle socks. Hir shoes are the normal battered dolly shoes and ze is holding a potted plant.

"There was a Mother’s Day sale, but they were almost all gone by the time I got there," explains Jehan in lieu of a greeting. "I’m going to take him to the meeting tonight. Will you help me name him?"

You force a one-sided smile. “Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Let’s go.”

You leave the familiar comfort of your flat and the strong smell of booze in order to follow Jehan through corridors and staircases and grey-skied streets that, though just as familiar as your flat, are filled with people who watch your every move and judge you for it. They see you and they know, they _know_. They know that this is the best outfit you own. They know that you’re shaking because you haven’t had a drink in over nine hours and you’re _dying_ because you can’t get one right now. They know that you want to die and they’re encouraging you to do it, just _do it_.

A girl laughs. You don’t see her face, but from the sound of other laughs around her, you know she’s got friends.

They’re laughing at you. They’ve seen you. You’re like a fucking beached whale who decided to put on clothes and walk around, ignorant to the fact that everyone can tell that you’re not a person. Not a human. Not even part of _l’abaissé_.

You try to find Jehan. Ze’s walking just behind you. Probably scared to be associated with you.

No. How dare you fucking forget. Jehan got it worse than you. Ze wears clothes ze likes and everyone laughs at hir because ze doesn’t give a shit. At least, outwardly.

You met hir at an anxiety support group. Ze introduced you to Les Amis and you’ve been with them all ever since.

You open the door of the Musain, shrinking back at the ringing of the bell. Some of the patrons look up and they’re judging you.

Jehan grabs your hand and pulls you through to the back room. The meeting seems to be in full swing already. You can hear Enjolras talking already, though his words are muffled. You’re not surprised that they all started without you but it’s odd for them to begin without Jehan.

Jehan opens the door almost silently, but freezes immediately. You can hear Enjolras’s words now, and you can’t decide whether or not you’re glad Jehan knocked on your door or not.

"-but then he’s so fucking _smart_ , and gorgeous to boot. He can rant about pretty much anything and he’s just _so goddamn interesting_.”

Jehan tries to get you to go in. You shake your head, leaning a hand against the wall for support. Nobody can see you.

"That’s a first," Bahorel says, the smirk evident in his voice. "Don’t you usually tell R to shut his mouth when he rants?"

Enjolras whines, though it’s slightly more muffled. He probably just shoved his head down onto a table. The mental image is adorable. “Because he’s too _distracting_. If I had a choice between doing the meeting and listening to Grantaire, you _know_ what I’d choose.”

"The meeting?" Feuilly asks, a chuckle in his voice.

There are a few thuds, then an “Oh my _fuck_ ,” most likely from Courfeyrac.

Louder, “Enjolras is in love with Grantaire!”

"What-" Enjolras splutters. "What? Fu-? No! _No_! I’m no-“

A pause. Someone does some Disney vocals from Meg’s song in _Hercules_

Quietly, Enjolras finishes, “Yes.”

Almost everyone in the room cheers.

"Fucking finally!"

"Now you just need to tell him!"

The room fell silent.

Jehan slips into the room like the fucking Phantom of the Opera, but prettier. “He’s just out there, if you want to talk to him. We’ve heard pretty much all of it.”

You make an attempt to leave, quietly running while pretending to walk. You get about five steps away before you hear a door slam behind you and then Enjolras is standing in front of you.

"Why?" you say. Your attempt at a question fails as you neglect to intonate, so the word comes out flatly.

"Why what?" he asks, brushing a golden lock of hair out of his face. He keeps hold of your arm with his other hand.

You shake your head, but cover his hand with one of your own. It contrasts poetically, Jehan would probably say. His soft, cold, milky white hand covered by your own harsh and rough one. “Why me? Out of anyone, why play this trick on me? It’s not funny, Enjolras.”

"Why would this be a trick?" His voice is quiet and shaky. You admire his acting skills.

Your face contorts into something uglier than normal. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be? Let’s be honest, Enjolras, I’m a fucking tragedy. I’m depressed and anxious for no fucking reason. I can’t find purpose in life. I need to do everything but I don’t have the energy to do anything. I have no real real friends and I _want to die_.”

Enjolras bites his lip and you are almost completely certain that he’s going to back out like you knew he was, before he says, “I’ll help. I’ll do my best to stop you from feeling like that. I can’t guarantee that you won’t, but I swear on everything that I love and believe in, _I’ll try_.”

You allow Enjolras to entwine his fingers with your own and you smile shakily. He squeezes your hand and smiles back.

-

It wouldn’t last.

_It wasn’t going to last_.

Because it’s been a year, two years, two years and six months, and you’re still in the same place.

Enjolras is the best boyfriend anyone could have. He’s ridiculously attentive and knows exactly how much physical affection you need; knows exactly how you like your coffee; knows exactly when you need to be out of your flat and exactly where you like to go.

It’s too much.

He looks at you like _you’re_ the deity and not him, but it’s a joke. It has to be. _You’re_ a joke, you _can’t_ have love. You’re disgusting, fat, sarcastic, annoying, greedy. It’s _too much_.

You used to feel unloved. Now you’re drowning in Enjolras in the best way possible but you can’t cope. The world is a joke. Sometimes you don’t feel real.

Enjolras is out tonight. He lives with you and you are so sorry that he’ll be the one to find your ugly corpse.

You make your way to the kitchen. Not because Éponine put the bottles there, but because you know that Enjolras doesn’t like the smell of booze and you want him to be happy even though anywhere you frequent has a distinct smell of whiskey. So it’s all in the kitchen.

You select a few bottles. Vodka, whiskey, it’s all the same, to be honest. You find your prozac after padding to the bathroom in your bare feet and start to empty the sheets of pills into your hand. Eventually they overflow, so you leave them on the floor. It’s probably not hygienic, but you don’t give a shit. You uncork the bottle and gulp it down, tipping the pills into your mouth. You swallow and repeat the process over and over again. When you run out of prozac, you fumble with the ibuprofen and manage to swallow a few handfuls.

You hardly notice the sound of the door unlocking and opening. It barely registers in your mind that Enjolras has come in until he grabs your hand, letting your next fistful of pills clatter to the floor.

"Grantaire? _Grantaire_? Grantaire can you fucking hear me?”

He’s pulling out his phone, you think. He’s calling an ambulance, then someone else.

“‘Ferre? ‘Ferre, _fuck_. Grantaire-“

"Enjolras?"

Your voice is barely a murmur.

"Fuck, Grantaire, please, please, _please_ be alright.”

You try to shake your head. “I will be.”

You feel something wet on your cheek. It takes you a moment to realise that it’s a tear. Enjolras is _crying_. You didn’t-

-you swear-

-you didn’t want this.

"Don’t cry, Enjolras," you barely breathe. "Angels shouldn’t cry."

Enjolras shakes his head, smiling sadly. You smile back, or at least try. He kisses you, and-

Everything goes dark.

-

You don’t feel much of anything.

You remember what it’s like to feel, or at least you think you do. You remember being able to pull both sides of your mouth up and bare your teeth in a smile. You remember being able to laugh with people you loved. You remember, in theory, happiness.

But you also remember misery and sadness and the feeling of guilt that hung over you every time you felt lost. You remember a hand trying to pull you from the dark but flagging; failing. You don’t remember if that was true or if it was just a part of your twisted, twisted imagination.

You wanted to die.

So you died.

You never saw Enjolras try desperately to restart your heart, or how he clung to your body until Combeferre arrived before the ambulance. You didn’t know how Courfeyrac’s smile fell from his face like an autumn leaf and never really returned. You couldn’t read Jehan’s poetry, which took a dark twist and eventually petered out to be replaced by a needle and protruding bones. You didn’t see Bahorel picking fights more and more until he was put in hospital. You didn’t see Feuilly get fired from some of his jobs for being late or getting orders wrong. You didn’t see Joly and Bossuet clinging to Musichetta for dear life and becoming more and more dependent on each other as their girlfriend tried to get away from everything she once held dear. You never saw that even Combeferre was falling apart slowly.

You never realised that Enjolras would die.

_Dying_ is the wrong word. _Not living_ , while it seems to be synonymous, more accurately describes what Enjolras went through after you died.

He moved and ate and breathed but he was barely there. He seemed lost in his own mind.

Sometimes he woke up screaming, begging, _crying_.

But you weren’t there.

You never saw it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from The Room by Cryoshell, who are a severely underrated band who I try to include as much as possible in my playlists.
> 
> (this is an excellent first fic to post after one of my best friends becomes my datemate)


End file.
